Had and Lost

In stanza four, "land and sea's intrigue," i.e. one's intrigue, fascination, with the land and sea. And in stanza six, "Near eighty," a bit of poetic licence though getting closer by the year.

   Another poem about endings and life's consequences is "Down to Death," written in May 2015 and posted here an 11 December 2019.

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There are some who never had,
And therefore never lost,
But those who had and lost
Know all too well the cost.

I mean not this-world things,
Its toys and plated trash,
Its lust for hoarded cash;
Those things are merely ash.

Rather the self’s delight
In what a woman gave;
But love would not behave
And so left nil to save.

Then land and sea’s intrigue,
Cliff’s height and plunge of gull,
But creatures’ ruthless cull
Left only bones and skull.

And soul’s unworded glimpse
Of what’s behind its meaning;
But all mind-effort’s gleaning
Missed Truth’s awaywards leaning.

And now old age intrudes:
Near eighty, frayed like rope,
I shuffle, mumble, grope,
Juggling from scowl to hope.

Might those who never had
In fact have had the best?
Dodging life’s anguished quest
They lolled then died at rest.

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© April 2025

Magpies in Winter

Among my many poems about birds is a 256 line blank verse one about a closely observed robin and therefore entitled "The Robin." It was written in November 2014 and posted here on 10 October 2018.

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   In iron-hearted February –
   That bone--incising cold! that frost! –
   All seeds, all slugs and the last berry
      Long eaten, magpies, proud
      But starved for scrap or crust,
   Deign statelily to strut my yard
Seizing the pigeons’ perks of tossed out bread.

   Those black-coped muggers, flashed with blue
   And green, their broadsword tails like threats,
   Ignore the pigeons’ huff and mow,
      Thieving those torn-up scraps
      Which later-year they’d nitch,
   Though poised for human sight or steps,
Rushing with clatter-cries to the bare trees’ tops.

   Gulls, though, are trumps! One, dropping down,
   Claims gull rights, wolfing fast. The ’pies
   Fall back, enraged, their status gone,
      White belly feathers raised:
      That gull taught being’s truths –
   The bigger bully feeds; deprived,
The rest must crave, searching what’s dried and bruised.

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© March 2025

A Beach Log

This massive log, perhaps a trunk, lasted almost a year before another exceptional tide swept it away. In stanza one "bronto" is short for brontosaurus. I have always pronounced "tousled" as "tossled." Therefore, in stanza two, line 5, it rhymes with "fossiled" in line 2. Another poem about tree trunks is "Tree Bark," written in October 2013 and posted here  on 11 May 2016.

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Stranded by storm and spring high tides
A sea-blanched log lay bald
On the shingle’s wave-cut scarp.
Full eight feet long, its pumiced sides,
Rutted and galled
By the sea’s warp,
Were almond-stained like much-aged skin:
Stark as a bronto’s shin
It sprawled, forgot by time’s discharging strides.

Its root ball like an old man’s fist
With stretching fingers fossiled,
Described a surly claw
Seasicked by the waves’ throw and list,
Their slumpings tousled
On the jostled shore:
Distrained, that sea-tugged hand made sign –
A French “merde!” yes, and mine! –
Braced for the beach’s grind to crush its gist.

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© February 2025

Near of Here/Ne'er of There

The phrases "near of here" and "ne'er of there" came to me in a night dream on 31 December 2024. "Near of here" = the earth, this life. "Ne'er of there" = hell. Therefore, "there" = Heaven. Another poem on a moment of realization or discovery, written long ago in March 1980, is "The Sudden Man." It is linked here. It was posted on 24 November 2011.

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What happens in the near of here,
Self-willed, self-preening, self-absolved,
My hates, revenges – laugh or leer –
That out of Eden once devolved,
When judged by One whom none outstare,
Condemns me to the ne’er of there.

And clamoured in the ne’er of there
Throbs torment’s truth: all that was done
Cannot reverse, for self’s forbear
Is neutered now that hell’s begun –
That folly when the days were dear
Of basking in the near of here!

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© January 2025

Pied Wagtail

On a tricksy note: lines 4 and 5 in the first stanza have 2 and 3 stresses, and lines 7 and 8 have 3 and 2 stresses. These four lines have feminine endings as do lines 9 and 10. Conversely, in the second stanza lines 4 and 5 have 3 and 2 stresses and lines 7 and 8 have 2 and 3 stresses. Again, these lines plus lines 9 and 10 have feminine endings.

   The exclamation mark at the end of line 1 in the second stanza acts as a full stop so that the second line - "A hardy blip" refers not to the bird's tail but the bird itself.

   Amongst my other bird poems is one om the long-tailed tit written in April 2015 and posted here  on 31 October 2019.

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      Oh wagtail, where have you been?
         Through summer’s hale
      You’re nowhere to be seen,
         (up country, feeding
      When the flies and mites are breeding).
   Now, in winter’s dank and gale
      You’re back, the sea’s lip being
         To you agreeing,
   Mild if wet; and quick zig-zeeing
   On prom or beach, advancing, fleeing,
         With “chip-chirp-chip,”
         Whilst the waves rail,
You pan for food, stopping to prod and sip.

      That uncease tail – tap, tap!
         A hardy blip –
      Black-bibbed, white-tuckered, slap
      And thrown by the wind’s whipping,
         Dodging and flipping
   With whirry legs in Triton’s grip:
         To next year’s seeking
      For mates, beak-to-cheeking,
   Breeding and egging, and scarce grits eking,
   Will you survive through winter’s screaking?
         For all that’s to do,
         Like a callous quip,
Is go on, go on, till flesh and bone unwoo.

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© December 2024